Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) Read Online Free PDF

dish.
    ‘Faggots and mustard pickle,’ Jowitt told him proudly.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘That’s the Monday Special. You heat it up for the evening crowd. Penny hot, three-farthings cold. And in the evenings you have the whole splendid range. Herrings, saveloys, pease pudding, currant pudding, lobscouse—’
    Auguste pricked up his ears, and his spirits cautiously halted awhile in their downward progress. Lobscouse? He had never heard of the dish, but no doubt it had to do with lobster. Some local dialect word, perhaps. He could produce lobscouse thermidor, lobscouse salad—
    ‘And eels,’ Jowitt was saying.
    ‘A
matelote a la Parisienne?’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘In a delicious casserole with white wine, oysters, crayfish butter and a little nutmeg?’
    Percy evidently decided this was a joke, and after the required roar of laughter, amplified kindly: ‘Collared or jellied.’
    Auguste gazed at him nonplussed.
    Jowitt did not notice. ‘Mostly they take the ha’porth and ha’porth though.’
    Auguste searched his vast store of culinary knowledge, but could not recollect such a dish. ‘Is this a local name for fish?’ he asked doubtfully.
    Percy blinked. ‘Fish and potatoes. Ha’porth of fish,ha’porth of spuds.’ He began to wonder if this cook knew his onions.
    ‘
À la lyonnaise?’
Auguste stopped, in quiet desperation. There was no common ground. He was on his own. ‘I cannot cook and serve all by myself,’ he said firmly. ‘And serve the drink as well.’
    ‘Of course not, my dear fellow,’ Percy reassured him hastily, glad there was something he could answer. ‘Wouldn’t expect it. Full staff at your beck and call. There’s the girl.’
    ‘What girl?’
    ‘
The
girl.’
    ‘Her name?’
    ‘Can’t bring it to mind. I expect she has one,’ Percy told him somewhat apologetically, smoothing down suspiciously black hair. ‘And old Jacob does the drink. You don’t have to lift a finger there.’
    ‘You must remember I am here for another reason too,’ Auguste said firmly, unconvinced.
    ‘Keeping the bailiffs away. I know. Very good of you.’
    ‘
Quoi?’
This was no time for politeness.
    ‘When Nettie offered me your services, I was truly grateful, my dear man. They mean to get me this time.’
    ‘But—’ Auguste broke off. What was the point? He fulminated against women, not so much for their deviousness, but for their blithe disregard of minor details . . . like informing those most concerned of what was going on.
    ‘Might I ask if you are expecting many bailiffs at the moment?’
    ‘You never
expect
bailiffs,’ Percy explained reasonably. ‘If they came when they were expected, you’d makeyourself and your goods scarce, wouldn’t you?’
    Auguste had never been in the unfortunate position of discovering the truth of this statement, though in his apprentice days he had come close to it. He could see the logic of Jowitt’s argument. Nevertheless it seemed he was expected to cook for numberless hordes, help quench their never-ending need for beer, keep the bailiffs from troubling Mr Jowitt, and, as a mere extra, prevent a possible foul murder by being a constant shadow to Will Lamb. Fortunately it was only for a week.
    ‘Imeretrelpyer.’
    ‘
Je m’excuse?’
Startled, Auguste glanced down at the source of this squeak.
    Roughly level with his chest was the dirtiest white cap he’d ever seen, crammed over long unkempt greasy hair, atop a broomhandle, or, on second glance, the skinniest girl he’d ever seen. Her boots were cracked, her too-short skirts revealed bony bare ankles, her print gown was covered by a dirty white apron. The latter was unnecessary since the dress was dirty enough in its own right. The face stared confidingly and gap-toothed up at him, then cracked in a large grin.
    ‘I’m Lizzie.’
    ‘You’re a waitress, Miss Eliza?’ he asked faintly.
    ‘Nah. I’m yer cook.’
    If ever there was a time to prove Auguste Didier was a man of resolution, this